


Learning curve

by prittyspeshul



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:36:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5061337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prittyspeshul/pseuds/prittyspeshul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a learning curve when it comes to raising children, Snow has discovered. [post 4.07]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning curve

Everyone in your baby class keeps telling you: Part of being a mother is making mistakes.

 

You’re laying in bed, exhausted from work and life and the sheer act of raising another human being, too tired to move when that very same human being starts to stir and cry down the hall—and two months ago, you would have been the Responsible Mother; you would have leapt up, sprinted down the hall and scooped him up to soothe his wails, but two months ago you didn’t recognize his different cries, didn’t understand that the late night cries will slow and stop and return to even, deep, belly breaths if you don’t move, and one month ago you started to steel yourself and listen to them, wait one minute, then two, then five. But tonight, when the wailing starts, you don’t even have to make a deal with yourself; you just lay, and breathe, and close your eyes, and wait. Nothing shatters; the world doesn’t screech to a halt; the crying peaks, and falls, and stops, and soon silence reigns supreme, and you count this night a victory. And every night after that, the crying is less, until he learns to soothe himself, and you can start to sleep like a normal person again (until he gets colic, and the cycle starts all over again).

And in this way, you learn that sometimes, you are the one who must teach your child to be resilient.

 

You were scared, because there were shards of bricks and glass and metal all around, and sparks flew and the lamppost fell. And it nearly landed on your husband, your sun and stars, your stupidly gallant selfless true love, but it didn’t. It struck him, though, and you were relieved that he was alive but scared because he had been hurt, and you were afraid because it had been so long since you had seen such power, and never from this person, this person who was supposed to have been your little girl, and your heart ached for her, and all of these things echoed in your cry of her name, but above all was fear, and you knew the second the word left your mouth you had made a mistake.

Her eyes were just as scared as you felt, and you saw the curtain fall on the hope in her heart, and you knew deep, deep inside that you had touched an old, old wound that has never seen a healing hand. So you frantically scrabble back, gentle pleading in your tone this time, reaching for her, but the damage has been done. She wheels and runs and you know this is your fault.

And in this way, you learn that every child’s resilience has a limit.

 

Everyone in your baby class keeps telling you: Part of being a mother is making mistakes.

In your sinking heart, you hope those mistakes don’t all feel like this.

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of my work involves Snow's mothering or lack thereof. I should probably address that.


End file.
